


If You'll Have Me

by sugarboms898



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon struggles to understand, Light Angst, Sansa is an emotional wreck, Theon Greyjoy Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 10:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboms898/pseuds/sugarboms898
Summary: Though the Night King’s aim was strong and true, Theon Greyjoy does not die that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.





	If You'll Have Me

Her grip on his arm is as strong as the iron running through his blood–persistent, unyielding.

They find him as they come to retrieve Bran, his eyelids fluttering weakly as he struggles to live. Though the Night King’s aim was strong and true, Theon Greyjoy does not die that night. Or the next. Or the one after that. Instead, he lays in the bed of his old chambers, body overcome with pain and fever as his body struggles to heal, the maester’s poultices cloying and foul as they sink into his body. Sansa does not leave his side in a fortnight. She will not–she cannot. She passes the duties of reconstruction and recovery to her counselors, taking only the master and servants as visitors; they look at her with pity in their eyes, either for her lack of decorum or her company, she couldn’t say. They wouldn’t understand, couldn’t possibly know what it meant–what _Theon_ meant–that she stay. That she be there for him in all the ways he was there for her.

And so she remains, her hands clutching his arm as fevers ravage his body, the stale smell of sweat mixing with the putrid stench of decay and healing. She will remain, she will wait, until he overcomes or succumbs to his wounds. It is what she owes, it is her due.

* * *

“Sansa.”

Turning towards the door, Sansa takes in Jon’s haggard appearance, his clothing dusty and stained, his hair wild and matted with dirt. A fine pair they make, unclean and unwilling to spare a moment away from rebuilding. Jon’s gaze slides from her to Theon, his stance straightening slightly; turning, Sansa is glad to see Theon still asleep. He had just fallen deep into sleep moments before, soft snores passing with every breath. Coughing spells and stuttered breaths are usual; twisting in pain and in nightmares, as well. Deep sleep is hard to come by, and Sansa will not disrupt it, not for anything. Locking their fingers together, Sansa turns back towards her brother, dipping her chin.

Jon’s painfully awkward expression brings a hint of a smile to her face. Never close when they were children, yet it has always been Jon’s downfall–his heart on his sleeve, his emotions on display for all the world to see. Even now, with so much time and space between them, it is something familiar, something special. Sansa’s joy leaves her as she returns to gazing upon Theon, his chest rising gently under the pile of blankets and furs piled on the bed. She reaches towards his forehead, brushing an errant curl of hair from his face; Jon clears his throat uncomfortably, Sansa flinching slightly.

“I will not leave him.”

“Sansa–”

“No,” she barks, her voice reverberating around the room.

Both turn to watch Theon warily, the injured man shifting slightly before snoring resumes; sighing, Sansa lowers her head, her hair hiding her face. Lips pursed, Jon limps towards the bed, hand coming to rest on Sansa’s shoulder.

“Winterfell needs you, Sansa.”

Sniffing, Sansa tightens her grip on Theon’s hand, “I don’t care. Theon needs me more.”

Shaking his head, Jon slowly kneels until he’s level with Sansa, his eyes dark with worry.

“Sansa. When was the last time you ate? Slept?”

Sansa ignores him, wiping at her eyes. Sighing, Jon stands slowly, his hand reaching for his side. Sansa purses her lips, guilt gnawing at her; Jon limps towards the door, stopping after a moment to turn back.

“I’ll have someone send up some food, yeah? Please try to eat it.”

Nodding, Sansa does not watch him go; instead, she gently swipes hair from Theon’s face, fingers soft on his burning skin.

He cannot leave her now, not yet.

* * *

 Theon wakes for a moment, a brief break in his fevers and bouts of slumber. His throat feels scraped with glass, raw and burning in ash. He must let out a sound, for instantly Sansa is filling his view, her blue eyes dark and wet. He takes her in like a starving man a feast; though her hair unwashed and stringy, her eyes sunken in and skin waxy, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Her face crumples for a moment, lips trembling as her eyes dart across his face; Theon lets his eyes drift shut a moment, sighing through his nose.

“Please.”

It is a whisper, but it rings out like a shout in the quiet room. Opening his eyes, Sansa is watching him closely, tears falling down her face. He tries to reach a hand out, face twisting in pain as it tugs at his wound; Sansa reaches forward quickly, lifting his hand to her face, uncaring of the gnarled, mangled remains of his fingers. She leans forward, letting him swipe a thumb under her eye. His heart is squeezing in his chest, tight and like a vice.

“…’Sa.”

She shushes him, reaching with one hand towards a pitcher on the table, pouring a small cup of water. Shaking, she lets go of Theon’s hand to tilt his head up, her touch gentle. She lets the water dribble into his mouth, pouring until the whole cup is gone. Theon coughs only once, eyes slipping shut once more. Sansa is running her hand through his hair, massaging his scalp as he lays there, drifting in and out of consciousness. They both know she should send for the maester, have him check his wounds and mental acuity, Sansa return to her duties and let Theon rest. And yet.

“Sansa,” Theon whispers, leaning into the woman’s touch.

“Theon,” she returns softly, her voice warm and all encompassing.

She leans in, her lips brushing across his sweaty forehead. Letting out a small sigh, Theon allows himself to drift off, Sansa’s hand in his.

**Author's Note:**

> A short little thing I wrote a while ago, something like 0.00000001 seconds after Theon died because how dare they.
> 
> Not super happy with it, but figured I post it anyways.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
